


Lockers

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Locker Room, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaise Zabini congratulates Harry on his latest Quidditch victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lockers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [y3llowdaisi3s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/y3llowdaisi3s/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn’t properly British.

Harry turns the corner with a towel around his waist and one in his hair, trying to rub out all the water. He gets about two steps before he stops abruptly and nearly tumbles to the locker room floor. “What the fuck?”

“Congratulations on your win, Potter,” Blaise Zabini coolly drawls from the bench in front of him, cross-legged, fully dressed, and looking far too casual for the situation.

Harry drops the towel in his arms and clumsily covers his chest with his arms on pure instinct. He shouts louder than he means to, cheeks bright red, “What the hell are you doing in here? This is the Gryffindor locker room!”

“Congratulating you on your win, obviously.” He continues to stare pointedly at Harry, and Harry has to will his feet to move forward. Zabini is sitting oddly close to his locker.

“Well, thank you,” Harry grunts. He doesn’t believe it for a second. Was Zabini there the whole time he was showering? Harry shudders. “Now kindly tell me the real reason you’re here, or get out!” Harry keeps as far away from the bench as he can manage while he walks stiffly to his locker.

Zabini chuckles behind him, and Harry tries not to let it distract him from dialing his combination correctly. “Well, if you must know, I was over in the Slytherin locker room, consoling Draco, when it suddenly occurred to me, why not celebrate with you, instead?” There’s something not right about the way he says ‘consoling’ and ‘celebrating.’ “I noticed you hung back and thought I’d try my luck.”

Harry got held up with Ron and Hermione and now sincerely wishes he’d sent them off immediately and gotten his shower over with quicker. All this Zabini-sitting-right-behind-him business is not doing any favours to his brain; he’s on his third attempt of a combination that he’s sure he knew five minutes ago. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not exactly a party in here.”

“Not yet.” Zabini’s voice sounds closer, and Harry glances over his shoulder; Zabini’s standing up now, right behind Harry. He’s a little taller than Harry, and his black, long-sleeved shirt hugs his toned chest a tad too tightly. Harry gulps in spite of himself. “But now that we’re alone, I thought we might set a new precedent for your Quidditch victories.”

“Now that we’re alone?” Harry’s tongue is thick in his throat. He feels like he should shake his head to clear it. He feels naked, even with the towel. Zabini’s tight jeans leave as little to the imagination as his top, and he’s standing far too close for comfort. Harry forces himself to remain coherent. He never had the time others his age did to utilize such innuendos, but he still recognizes them. It’s good to have another year at Hogwarts to have another go at _normal_ , but this isn’t something that feels normal or anything he knows how to handle. He tries vaguely, “I think you should go back to... to consoling Malfoy...” Whatever that means.

Zabini snorts and waves an elegant hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I don’t need to waste my time with losers, even if they are particularly good at sucking cock.”

So much for mere innuendo. Harry’s eyes widen. His cheeks flush heavily and he blurts before he can stop himself, “ _What?_ ”

“You heard me,” Zabini practically purrs, stepping closer. “Or did you think he was good for anything else? C’mon, with a filthy mouth like that, the boy’s practically made for it. Don’t pretend you haven’t pictured him on his knees in front of you...” Another step, and Harry turns instinctively, backing up into his locker. His back hits the cold metal, and Zabini continues throatily, “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy having tarts like that around for when the mood strikes, but I really thinks it’s time we both graduated to someone a little more... _worthy_. Don’t you think?”

Harry isn’t thinking much of anything. The proximity’s making his head fog, and the expensive cologne clinging to Zabini’s dark skin isn’t helping. He gets one fleeting thought of shoving Zabini away—he could do it, he’s strong and came through the war with as much fighting skills as anyone—but something, likely hormones, holds him back. In the span of his hesitation, Zabini leans forward, pressing Harry back into his locker, and he can feel the indent where the lock is, digging into him. He’s too paralyzed to do anything about it.

Zabini tilts sideways to whisper in his ear, “Don’t take that the wrong way, Potter. You’ll be _mine_ just like Malfoy in a few fucks, but at least you’re a winner. And from now on, whenever you win your little sports matches, you know who you’re going to come to...”

Harry’s brain is short-circuiting. He’s about to object—he’s not _anyone’s_ , certainly not a Slytherin’s, after all he’s been through—but the sensual promise behind it stills Harry’s tongue. He spent so much time fighting and so little _indulging_ , and his body’s long overdo, warring his mind. Then Zabini presses into him, hard, and he can feel Zabini’s toned form everywhere. He can feel Zebini’s tented crotch digging into his towel, and instead of pushing away, Harry makes a weak keening noise.

Zabini presses a knee between his legs, and Harry gasps and arches. This is easily more sexual stimulation than he’s ever gotten before, even in his brief dating stints with Cho and Ginny, and he never even gave Zabini a second glance before today, and they’ve barely even spoken...

Zabini doesn’t seem to care. He tilts his head and captures Harry’s lips. Harry’s body betrays him, mouth falling open, unsure of what to do but enjoying it far too much. Zabini’s tongue slips instantly inside, and then Harry’s being _kissed_ , really kissed, with tongue, and all the blood rushes to his head and his groin. It’s so warm, and Zabini’s body is warm against him, and his back is cold on the other side. He’s still slightly wet from the shower, and the kiss is wet, and he doesn’t know what to do. So he doesn’t do anything. Zabini dominates his mouth, claims him, and fucks him with a talented tongue.

When Zabini pulls back, Harry’s left reeling. His head is a fuzzy mess and he’s breathing too heavy. He looks at Zabini with wide, unfocused eyes, his glasses feeling fogged, while his bared chest falls up and down too erratically.

Zabini’s thigh rubs into his crotch, which is very, very much awake now, and Harry moans shamelessly. He doesn’t know what to do, and his arms are simultaneously limp and tense at his sides. His fists are clenched, but he doesn’t know what to do with them. When he finally manages to open his mouth again, Zabini cuts him off, and laughs, “Don’t ruin it now, Potter. We both know how much you enjoyed that.” Harry shuts his mouth, red from head to toe. He has no idea what he would’ve said anyway. Zabini presses into his crotch again for emphasis, and Harry grunts and bites his lip. “Now, since it’s obviously your first time, I think I’ll be nice to you. Do you want me to fuck your mouth, or do you want me to fuck your ass over that bench, or do you want me to fuck your ass right here, up against your locker?” He grinds into Harry slowly as he talks.

Harry whimpers at the stimulation but somehow mutters, “F-fuck you...” He can at least _pretend_ to resist, or maybe he’s asking.

Zabini chuckles, and nips at his ear. “That wasn’t an option.” Then he grabs the corner of Harry’s towel and rips it off so fast Harry doesn’t have time to react. “If you want to feel like you’re on top, you can climb into my lap and ride my cock...”

His dark hand slips through the patch of black curls at Harry’s crotch, twisting around his dick. Harry instantly gasps; he’s never had another person’s hand there before. He can’t help it—he jerks up into Zabini’s firm grip. Zabini laughs darkly next to him and begins to stroke Harry with far more skill than Harry’s ever managed. “You like that, golden boy?” Zabini purrs, and he sounds exactly like the sex god he’s turning out to be. His voice lowers as he trails small bites down Harry’s jaw, back to his lips. “You might want to hold on; it’s only going to get better...”

When Zabini’s thumb swipes over Harry’s leaking slit, he loses control, and his arms shoot up around Zabini’s shoulders. Zabini’s still fully dressed, and Harry fists his hands in Zabini’s black shirt, not sure if he’s trying to push Zabini away or pull him in. The more those talented fingers squeeze at his cock, the more Harry thinks: _in_. He slips his arms around Zabini, and Zabini dives in for another fervent kiss, grinding Harry hard into the locker.

Harry’s too loose and heady and useless to notice when another hand joins the first, one at his shaft and one at his balls. They gently tug and knead and squeeze, just using the left over beads of water from the shower, and Zabini’s holding him in place with sheer presence. Even when one of Zabini’s fingers runs behind his balls, through his crack, Harry’s too drunk to say anything. He’s thrusting into Zabini’s hand and trying to keep up with Zabini’s busy mouth, and a blunt fingertip circles his hole, and Harry’s never, ever had anyone touch him _there_ , but it feels good and he can’t help it. If anything, now he feels foolish for wasting so much time. He had a heavy burden, yes, but he missed out on so much _fun_ between. He arches and he moans and he practically whimpers in this new, expert grasp. When Zabini parts their lips, Harry whines at the loss and feels moderately ashamed.

He’s even more upset when Zabini’s hand leaves his cock. Those dark finger shoot to his shoulders, grabbing Harry firmly, and for some strange, bizarre reason, Harry lets them turn him around. He lets Zabini shove him into his locker, chest first, and he turns his head to the side just in time to save his nose. Zabini keeps a firm grip on the small of his back, and his cheek presses into the cool metal.

Zabini’s other hand dances down Harry’s spine to rest on his ass cheeks, and Zabini squeezes each one affectionately. He plays with them while he talks, and Harry would be furious if the friction on his cock weren’t enough to drive him wild. “Not the best angle,” Zabini muses. His teeth scrap across Harry’s neck, around his ear and at the side of his cheek. “But you couldn’t take all of me on the first go, anyway. I’m sure even the filthy muggles you grew up with had their rumours—what’s that saying? About never going back?” He smirks, as Harry’s cheeks colour furiously. Zabini hisses like the Slytherin he is, “I’m going to _ruin you_ , Potter. No one will ever be able to fulfill you like I can...”

Harry’s hands are pressed against the locker, and they fist when Zabini’s finger suddenly presses into his hole. Harry cries out from the shock and whimpers from the sting—it’s uncomfortable and feels wrong. But Zabini holds his shoulders down, and Harry’s still embarrassingly hard, and trying to move away from Zabini’s finger only rubs him further into the locker. Zabini shifts himself closer, pinning Harry’s legs to the locker door with his own. Zabini just pushes his finger in further. He mutters, “Or maybe I’ll just finger you... get you all wet like a bitch, hungry and desperate for next time...”

“There...” Harry gulps, “there w-won’t be a nex... next time...” But Merlin, he’s lying. How is he still so hard? Zabini’s finger reaches all the way to the knuckle, and Harry whines, squirming on it and clenching his ass, trying to push it out. He shouldn’t still be hard. But he is. He almost jumps when Zabini mutters something unintelligible; something like a spell, and a second later, something cold and wet is filling his ass. It grows and squishes around Zabini’s finger, and Harry’s blushing furiously. He moves his arms above his head so he can press his forehead against them, hiding his face from view. Zabini kicks his legs a little wider, and he can only imagine what he looks like. If Ron or Hermione ever saw him like this...

But he doesn’t want to think about them right now. Harry’s muscles feel strange and are shifting of their own accord, probably from Zabini’s spell. Zabini kisses his ear and purrs, “Don’t worry, Potter. I take care of my toys...” He keeps fingering Harry’s ass, pseudo-fondly.

Then he’s pressing another finger inside, and Harry’s flutter closed. He grunts something incoherent, even to him.

“Shhh,” Zabini coos and pats his ass, as though soothing a startled horse. Harry grunts again. “It’ll feel better if you relax.” A thoughtful chuckle as those too-long fingers scissor inside him, and Zabini growls, “Unless you want a bit of pain. Wouldn’t that be a nice distraction, from all your trials? If you’re good, I’ll give you enough pain and pleasure to drown out all your other dreams, until all you think about at night is my fat cock, and how badly you want it in you.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles. How Zabini knows about his chronic nightmares, he has no idea. But that does sound better. This is better. Zabini’s stretching him carefully, and the sharp stinging has subsided into a dull ache. Somehow, his dick’s still twitching in anticipation, and he’s still rutting shallowly into the locker, wishing Zabini’s hand was back. When Zabini’s fingers slip out of him, Harry glances over his shoulder.

Zabini’s looking down, and Harry tries to follow the gaze. But he has to turn to do so, and then Zabini shoves him back into place, and his front makes a thudding sound as it hits the locker. Harry winces. Then something wet and spongy presses at his entrance, and Harry’s eyes widen.

He knew this is where it was heading. He’s inexperienced but not foolish. But maybe he is, because somehow his head didn’t really put it together—Zabini’s going to _fuck him_. He’s not even gay. Or bi, or anything. Well, he didn’t think he was. And he’s going to let a Slytherin... Harry’s tongue is heavy, his throat dry. He mutters anxiously, “Zabini...”

But his words are cut off when the head of Zabini’s cock stabs into him—Harry _screams_. It’s huge and bulbous, and it pops inside him slickly, and presses further, further. Zabini doesn’t stop to breathe or adjust, he just keeps pushing forward, and when Harry starts _writhing_ , Zabini’s other hand, splayed between his shoulder blades, holds him down. Zabini slides in centimeter by centimeter, until it’s too much, until his balls hit Harry’s ass and Harry knows he’s all the way. Harry feels like he’s being split open. It’s strange and it sort of hurts, even with the spell. Zabini coos, “Relax,” but Harry can’t. His muscles are clenching. He’s being impaled. Zabini kisses the back of his neck, and Harry feels bizarrely _filthy_.

Then Zabini slides out and rams back in, slamming Harry forward, and the metal groans loudly beneath him. Another slam, and Harry almost cries out—he’s breathing so heavily. Zabini shifts a little between each thrust, and on the third one, Harry shrieks—Zabini hits something inside him and everything changes. Every nerve ending’s set off, and it’s like a bundle of pleasure has exploded inside him, coiling in his stomach and shooting up his limbs, clouding his head and making his heart pound impossibly fast. He throws his head back onto Zabini’s shoulder, and Zabini pistons into him harder, faster. Ever thrust slams Harry into the locker, and it’s noisy and Harry’s just as vocal. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable anymore, and he doesn’t care if it’s wrong. It’s so good. It’s _so fucking good_. It’s so hot, so warm—he’s on fire. Zabini’s so big, and fills him so completely, and stabs against that pleasure-spot every time. His vision is going, Zabini’s hissing and grunting at his ear, and Zabini starts biting at his neck. Zabini sucks and licks, and Harry thinks he might leave bruises, but Harry can’t bring himself to care. The abuse to his cock only makes him harder, and then Zabini reaches around his stomach and starts fisting him, shielding him from the hard slams. It feels even better, and Zabini pumps him furiously. Harry scrapes at the metal—he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wishes he were turned around, so he could hold onto Zabini for dear life.

Zabini pounds into him like a wild animal. Every thrust is too harsh, too rough, and if Harry were a lesser man, he’d _break_. Zabini fucks him brutally. Harry takes it. His mind is swimming, every other trouble forgotten, everything is gone except for the pleasure on both sides. Harry’s rocking wildly forward into Zabini’s hand and back onto Zabini’s cock, wanting more. He wants everything. Zabini’s so big Harry doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to walk again after this, but he doesn’t care. It’s huge and hard and it ravages his twitching hole, and Zabini ravishes his neck. It’s all he can do to stay upright; his knees are shaking.

The pleasure pools in Harry’s stomach. His balls tighten against Zabini’s fist. The orgasm that rips through Harry’s body is like nothing he’s every felt before—it’s the most intense pleasure he’s ever known. He opens his mouth and completely howls, jerking in Zabini’s grip and shooting his load all over the locker. His ass clenches and he sees stars. It’s amazing. It’s so fucking amazing.

On a final thrust, Zabini presses him so hard into the locker Harry’s cheek slams into it, and Zabini holds Harry there while Harry’s cock twitches and empties itself all over Zabini’s hand. Harry has to put all of his energy into breathing; he’s a heavy, thick-headed, lust-clouded wreck that can’t see straight.

As soon as Zabini pulls out, Harry’s knees buckle. Without that support, he topples forward, slumps against the locker, and slides, sticky, to the floor. He’s covered in a thin sheen of water from the shower and sweat from the sex, and his stomach’s drenched in his own cum. The locker room smells musky and distinctly like sex. Harry’s still facing the locker, and presses his forehead against it.

He’s satiated and boneless: too limp to move.

A moment later, Zabini grabs him by the hair and jerks him backwards—Harry topples to the ground, facing up and staring. Zabini towers over him, still fully dressed except with his cock pulled out of his trousers. He steps over Harry, straddling him. Zabini pumps his cock for a few more strokes, coming all over Harry’s face. Harry closes his eyes and turns his head, but not in time to avoid a particularly fat glob landing in his open mouth, sliding off his tongue. The rest hits his cheek, drips across his nose, splatters his hair. Harry coughs as Zabini finishes, milking every last drop onto Harry’s spent form. Harry rolls onto his side and tries to spit out the cum in his mouth. Zabini laughs and steps over him.

“To the victor go the spoils, Potter,” Zabini chuckles, and Harry can hear a muffled cleaning charm in the background, followed by a zipper. “I’ll be seeing you after the next victory, of course. ...Although if you should need a release from all your stress in between, do let me know. If I should have the time, I’d be happy to put your tight ass to good use again.”

Harry stops rubbing at his face long enough to look up when he hears more footsteps—Zabini’s heading for the door.

“...Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a certain blond to go console. ...Perhaps next time, I’ll even let you come with me.” He turns to wink over his shoulder at a shell-shocked Harry, completely naked and broken.

Harry drops his head back to the tile floor and mumbles, “What the fuck...” 

Then he wonders vaguely if he should go shower again, amidst a myriad of other new questions.


End file.
